Cat's Corner

I’m not afraid of ghosts.After all, my nearly 100-year-old girlhood home in Connecticut sits across from a graveyard. And it shelters an otherworldly inhabitant of its own.

My three siblings and I grew up across the road from Union Cemetery, a (US) Civil War-era graveyard from the mid-1800s. Its large green space, packed with headstones, spans several acres and became part of the community as population expanded around what once was undeveloped land.

As children, the “cem” was also part of our vocabulary and an integral part of our world that we took for granted, as children often do.We played tag and softball in the cem’s grassy entrance. Kicking high on a swing, we had contests to see whose toes could set an imaginary trajectory to the highest point on Baker: b. 1877; d. 1909, as our legs stretched to make their highest arc. Dad always joked that we had the quietest neighbors in town. Until I was an adult when I learned otherwise, I believed the scent from those sweet-smelling boxwoods nestling between graves was actually the perfume of the dead.

Perhaps the biggest reason Union Cemetery was a childhood landmark was its location: it stood smack between our house and the elementary school we attended.

Instead of adding 10 minutes to walk the long way around the graveyard to class, we took the shortcut through the little path that cut through its middle. We were respectful, never venturing off that road that ended next to Tracey Elementary.

Usually we walked in groups, but occasionally I walked by myself. I was never scared being alone until the afternoon I saw a man lying face down on the knoll that was Johnson: b. 1904; d. 1946. I was certain Johnson had risen from the dead! Heart pounding, I sprinted home as fast as my fourth-grade legs could carry me. Mom called the cops immediately, but they found only a drunk, who had discovered a quiet spot to sleep it off in the grass.

Photo: Morguefile

For all our bravery, we instinctively left the cemetery alone after dark. It was one of those unspoken bits of childhood wisdom. It wasn’t that we believed in spirits -- that is, until one Halloween night, when vandals knocked over gravestones. We were appalled by this senseless act. Certain it wasn’t done by anyone from our neighborhood.

After that Halloween, we slowly became aware of our house ghost. My brother thinks she appeared after being angered by the vandalized tombstones.

Mom was first to notice her. One afternoon as our mother dozed in her rocker in the tiny downstairs den, an original and oldest part of our home, a bright light awakened her. The figure of a woman appeared, wearing granny glasses and dressed in a nightgown and nightcap. The specter hovered and watched, checking out Mom and the room. It didn’t advance or threaten before disappearing after a few moments. When Mom reported what happened, we rolled our eyes in disbelief.Shortly afterward, we converted the den into a bedroom for my sister; however, she was plagued by insomnia and soon returned to sleep upstairs with the rest of the family. Then we used that downstairs room as a guest bedroom. Our former minister overnighted there when he traveled through town. Each visit, he’d hang his clothes carefully in the wardrobe. And each morning, he found his clothes folded and lying in a neat pile on the floor.With a wink and a grin, we finally acknowledged our house ghost, whom Mom named Mabel.

Photo: Morguefile

Mabel never does anything to frighten or harm us. Instead, she’ll do little things to make sure we know she’s around. For instance, Dad’s favorite lounge chair reclines up and down, although no one sits in it or touches the controls. Food slides across a perfectly straight table when no one is nearby. Wine bottles in the now-remodeled kitchen fall off a rack positioned where the bed once stood in the old den, before the expansion that incorporated it into a larger space. In fact, remodelers reported smelling perfume while ripping down the den’s old wall.As we’ve grown up and moved out on our own, Mabel continues to spin us around whenever we visit. She likes to prank us, so we don’t forget her.

If you come to visit, don’t put your keys down: they will disappear. You may hear mom’s antique clock chime the hour, though it’s been broken for years and doesn’t run anymore. Windows move up and down by themselves. And Toni, Dad’s caregiver, will tell you how she hears footsteps upstairs when nobody is on the second floor.

Photo: Morguefile

Me? I never had a Mabel sighting. Though one warm spring night this past May, as I visited Dad and sat near a window with a view to the cem, I pulled on a sweater to ward off a cold blast of air that had me shivering.

As we’ve grown up and moved out on our own, Mabel continues to spin us around whenever we visit. She likes to prank us, so we don’t forget her.

“Why do you need that sweater?” Toni asked. “It’s hot in here.”“It’s really chilly near this window,” I explained. “I don’t understand why because the window is closed and the AC is off.”We checked. The window was firmly locked; cold air pouring from it.Toni looked at me. “That’s the same window the dogs bark at all the time, and we can’t figure out why they’re howling,” she said.We took a moment to stare at the glass but saw only shadows from trees in our yard. We turned to each with knowing looks: Mabel!

I quietly moved away from the window and found another place to sit.

Have you experienced a Mabel in your life? Or do you think it's just imagination? Part of living in an old house? Please weigh in on the comments section.

I was working around the clock to get 'Sweet T and the North Wind' ready for its November e-book debut on Amazon.

There were silly snafus, like dashing out to buy more printer ink at 11 p.m. Studying marketing strategies until my eyes glazed over, and I was frozen with indecision. Normally, I'd laugh things off and move ahead with a can-do attitude. But lack of sleep and abundance of worries almost reduced me to tears.

As a type ‘A-Minus,’ I have a tendency to push myself. As a former learning coach who supported stressed-out college students, I counseled them to take a break from an arduous task, and then hit it with a fresh brain.

Time to follow my own advice.

It was a lovely Friday fall afternoon, the kind of knock-your-socks-off blue sky and crisp autumn air that makes you glad to be alive.

Hmmm. Continue work and stress? Or quit and enjoy a Friday afternoon in the sunshine? No brainer!

Photo: blog.tennessean.com

I logged off, grabbed my camera, and headed downtown to the 2014 International Blue Grass Music Association (IBMA) Festival with Spouse/Editor Extraordinaire, JM. We attended last year, the IBMA's first in our North Carolina capitol, mingling with crowds and tapping toes to music that flowed on every corner of this outdoor music festival.

Crowds were still manageable as we strolled Raleigh's main thoroughfare that morphed into a tent-canopiedallée of vendors selling all things country. Barbeque sauce (huge rivalry between eastern North Carolina's vinegar-based sauce and western NC's tomato-centric creation). Art. Country gear. Craft beer.

And the food ...

Just walking past funnel cakes and the 8-inch high bacon mountains, topped with gooey cheese spread and more bacon crumbles, was enough to topple your daily intake of calories.

And music ...

World-class bluegrass musicians performed on every street corner.

What talent they had for setting feet to tapping and spirits soaring.

E-book marketing was the farthest thing from my mind. Yay!

Photo: Raleigh News & Observer

We took it all in. I didn’t want the magic to end.

My stressed slip away. I was still anxious about all I had to accomplish, but the music mended my spirits and restored my confidence.

I took a video of the performers, so you could hear their amazing sounds. I wanted to upload and share it here for you. But the technology for doing so and the capabilities of my webhost eluded me. Sigh.

I won't stress about it. I'll save video uploads for another time --- the next item to tick off on my writerly journey's to-do list.